Pieces of the Puzzle
by puzzledscribe
Summary: A few short drabbles I did on tumblr based on one-word prompts. Most of them are LaytonxClaire centric. Genre varies by drabble.
1. Offspring

"What do you think our children would look like?"

"Hm?"

Hershel lifted his head off the back of the sofa and looked down at Claire. She was lying down on the couch, her head resting on his leg, her hair spilling across his lap. She looked up at him expectantly. He blinked drowsily down at her, still trying to process what she had said.

"I said, what do you think our children would look like?" she repeated.

"Oh, um…" Hershel glanced up, his brow creased. He hadn't thought about that before. A warm fuzziness crept through his stomach at the idea of them having children. He looked back down, a smirk on his face. "You're the scientist. You tell me."

Claire gave a feigned scoff and roll of her eyes. "Hershel, you know I'm in quantum physics, not biology." She crossed her arms across her chest and looked towards the ceiling of the flat in thought. "If you were to venture a guess, though, what do you suppose their appearances would be like?"

Layton tapped a finger on his chin and pursed his lips. "Well, a girl would have your eyes and smile." He gave Claire a winsome grin, which made her giggle.

"And a boy would have your nose and fluffy hair." She reached up to push on his nose, making him chuckle. She pulled her arm back and inched closer to Hershel, closing her eyes and smiling warmly.

Once Claire had settled, Layton reached down and gently ran his fingers through her hair, smiling tenderly as he rested his head back once more and closed his eyes.


	2. Clean

Tidiness was not something that came naturally to him. It wasn't that things were unclean, though. He preferred the term "disorganized".

Even when Hershel was a teenager, his mother would frantically attempt to clean his room until it was spic and span despite his protests. Of course, his parents put it off as him simply being a teenager, but it was a habit that stuck with him.

At university, at least Clark was a bit better at keeping things neat. He often berated Hershel on the scattered papers and food wrappings that littered his side of the dorm, but they still got along well. Claire was a little gentler with her chiding, but a clean flat would only last a day or so before it was in its original state of disarray.

Layton tried to keep things orderly. He really did. When he had a free space of time he would attempt going through the ever-growing stacks of books that lay around the perimeter of his office, but every time he would be distracted. He would end up spending the rest of that free time cross-legged on the floor, hunched over the second or third book in a stack, paging through it because he had forgotten he even owned it.

Some things really never changed, he supposed.


	3. Rose

The cold air stung the tips of his fingers as he clutched the bouquet.

"I've brought these for you." His voice was soft, airy like the puffs of steam that escaped his lips as he spoke. His throat hurt. He shuffled his feet, the snow below them crunching as he shifted his weight

"I'm sorry I'm a little late," he continued. "I had a few students come to me after class with some questions. I apologize for that."

His throat began to burn. He clenched his jaw. Really? It had been ten bloody years. He still made these routine trips. His heart still clenched when he thought about what they had, what they could have had. Other people would be over this by now. Moved on.

Well, he did still wear that damned hat, after all.

He gripped the bouquet tighter, but he didn't feel the piercing of the rose thorns breaking through the paper around their stems and tearing through his skin.

His blood, the same brilliant red of the roses, trickled off of the stems and onto the pale snow before the grave. It looked as though the roses themselves were being drained of their color.


	4. Sleep

"Dear, aren't you going to be late?" Claire asked as she worked her tie into a knot with her fingers.

She made her way towards the bed, but Hershel replied with a low groan that would probably translate to something along the lines of "five more minutes…" He hugged the pillow in his arms tighter as if it were a physical form of his unconsciousness.

She giggled at his response and walked across the room, her voice fading as she exited into the hallway. "Oh, Hershel, don't be like that. I know you're not a morning person, but it's your own fault for teaching morning classes this semester."

Hershel, sighing, buried his face deeper into the pillow. He clung to the fog of sleep for just a little longer. He heard footsteps approaching his side of the bed and something was placed on top of his head. There was a light peck of lips on his cheek, and then the footsteps faded away again. Hershel smiled, snuggling into the blankets, reveling in the warmth of the sheets.


	5. Funeral

As if having to do this once was bad enough.

It was raining this time, though. The weather on the day of Randall's funeral had been surprisingly pleasant, though he couldn't say as much for the actual funeral. Even though the sun had been shining, there was a collective somberness so thick in the air that it could have covered the sun.

Today, however, it seemed that the weather had decided to play along with the mood. What a pathetic fallacy.

Among the cluster of umbrellas and hushed bodies around the fresh grave, Hershel felt empty and numb like a shell, a hollow existence.

Was this how he had felt when Randall had died? He couldn't even remember. Everything from that time was a blur now. Somehow, however, he knew that this was much, much worse.

Water dribbled across the brim of his hat and onto the drenched ground, pattering away at the sodden grass. He heard the service leader's voice, but couldn't make sense of the words. The only sound was the rain as it slowly eroded away at his crumbling stone facade, but beneath it was nothing but a void.


	6. Ring

He could do this. He had practiced in the mirror so many times he had lost count.

Hershel paced back and forth in his flat, reciting the words over and over in his head. He still stumbled a little, but that was okay. As long as he got the words out it didn't matter. What if she didn't say yes…NO, of course she would. He opened and closed the little, black, rounded box in his coat pocket.

Clack.

"Claire, we have been,"

Clack.

"seeing each other for quite,"

Clack.

"some time, and-"

The phone rang.

…

CLACK.


	7. Birthday

Heat pulsated through his body, pooling mostly in his face. Blood roared in his ears. His chest fluttered as if he were filled with nothing but air.

Then she pulled away, and cool air met his lips.

"Happy Birthday, Hershel," she said with a grin, her own face a light tinge of pink. Oh, God, that smile. He could just about melt. She tucked a few locks of stray hair behind her ear.

Layton blinked, still in shock. His lips moved in attempt to articulate words, but nothing came out. They finally settled on a slanted smile.


	8. Painting

"Yes, it is," he replied dumbly, still in a love-sick haze.

The world isn't a blank canvas.

It's black.

Black with corruption.

Black with greed.

It has to be repainted.

Orange, yellow, and red, the flames licking up against the smoky sky.

A form of red, brown, and white to pull him back from decent into that darkness.

All of it is blurred by tears, sounds blocked by screams.

Paint it. Paint it. Frenzied motions of madness. Fight it away. Cover the black, but it continues to seep through the paint. It's not thick enough.

There is only one way to make it stay.

Blood is thicker than water.


	9. Werewolf

Layton's heart stirred in his chest. Something was wrong.

The stirring grew to a rapid pounding. His entire body quaked.

What was happeNI-He let out a strangled cry of pain as he crumpled to the floor. His blood burned like fire through his veins. He curled his limbs closer to his body, begging whatever higher power there was, if there were one at all, for the pain to stop.

He felt his fingers elongate, his nails sharpening into claws. He lifted his hand, watching it change shape. He shook his head, his rational mind struggling for any sort of logic.

Fear comes from things we have little to no knowledge about.

He was afraid.

Another surge of pain shot through his spine. He sprawled onto the floor on his stomach. He grit his teeth, tearing at the floor with these new talons, but that only made the pain greater.

He sucked in a deep breath, and against his own will, he howled.

His eyes widened.

No.

Werewolves.

Aren't.

_Real_.


	10. Waltz

"B-But I don't know how," he stammered, taking a step back.

"That's fine, dear," she replied with a gentle smile. "I'll simply have to teach you."

Hershel hesitated. He struggled to think of a counter, but it was useless. His shoulders slouched in defeat.

Claire smiled in triumph. "Good. Now, come here." She spread her arms for him to come closer.

With a sigh, Hershel reluctantly complied. Claire took up his hand and placed it on her hip-

"-I'mmm not so certain about this," he said, slipping his hand back, a deep rooted blush resting on his face. "I-I'll most likely step on your toes." He took a keen interest in the ground.

Claire let out a sigh and crossed her arms. "Hershel, how are you supposed to learn if you don't let me show you? Come along." She reached out her hands to take his.

He slowly placed his hands in hers, but he didn't dare look up. God, why did he have to be so shy around her? He wasn't like this with anyone else. Once more, she placed his right hand on her hip. He wanted to pull it back, but he knew that she would catch his hand again and start the cycle over. He took a shaky breath to compose himself.

"Very good," Clare praised, resting her left hand on his shoulder and entwining the fingers of her right hand with his left. "You have to look up, though."

Hershel obeyed, his face reddening. They were so close…

"Now, just step your left foot forward and relax."


	11. Snow

Luke took a hesitant step towards him. This was so surreal, like a film. Even the snow added to the effect, like static in the image so it wasn't quite clear.

"Professor?" His voice came out as a quiet squeak. There was no reply. Heart pounding, Luke slowly moved forward. He stepped out of the pool of light in the alley, and next to Layton.

The boy had no idea what to do now. He was usually good at this sort of thing, but this…he could never have prepared to this. Without his hat, the professor didn't seem to be his mentor anymore, the prestigious Professor Hershel Layton, puzzle master and mystery solver. He was just a man, and a broken one, nonetheless. It shook Luke to his core. He tried to blink the tears from his eyes, but they only welled more.

"P-Professor," he said again, but this time his voice was distorted by his closing throat. Layton, clearly hearing the distress in Luke's voice, looked down.

His expression was forlorn at first, how could he make his apprentice cry at his expense like that, but it softened to a somber smile. He released a sigh, and it left his mouth in a cloud of steam that faded into the snow and darkness. One hand released his hat and rested on Luke's head, moving back and forth to shift his blue cap. Layton slowly placed his own hat back on his head. Out of shame, but still smiling, he glanced away, lifting his hand to wipe away the stray tears that still lingered on his cheeks.

"I-I'm sorry you had to witness that, my boy," he said in a hushed tone, his voice cracking. He felt Luke's fingers latch onto his sleeve, and he didn't want them to let go.


	12. Eureka

Cogs and gears, spinning and grinding.

Churning, analyzing.

Sentences broken down to their framework. Every word dissected, torn apart and reassembled. Every angle assessed. Tumblers falling into place, like a key in a lock.

The pieces falling together, arranging themselves into the perfect solution. A rush of adrenaline.

Puzzling.

Puzzling.

Point.


	13. Child

So many emotions swam through his head that he thought he was going to be sick. Most of them he couldn't even place.

He could name a few, though.

Anxiety. Pride. Relief. Love.

Months of waiting had finally come to an end.

Warmth swelled from his feet to his face, collecting mostly around his heart. The pressure in his chest felt like it was about to burst, like a bottle of fizz shaken to its limit.

He gripped the brim of his hat, his knuckles turning white from the tension. It was growing to be a habit.

A small, soft bundle of cloth was held out to him.

"Would you like to hold her?"

He reached out-

Sunlight.


End file.
